


Paterson is...

by clumsycopy



Category: Paterson (2016)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:00:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25937065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clumsycopy/pseuds/clumsycopy
Summary: An ode to Paterson.
Relationships: Paterson (Paterson)/Reader, Paterson (Paterson)/You
Kudos: 9





	Paterson is...

**Author's Note:**

> Fluff. Pure fluff.

_Paterson is a kind man.  
_

You’re reminded of that every morning, with each note he leaves on your nightstand. By now, it’s a reflex; you slam the alarm clock off, lifting you wrist high enough as not to drop the little folded piece of paper.

It’s the first thing you read, before your phone or anything else. As your eyes take in the words, they kindle your heart; as your hands trace his neat writing, you wish he could wake up with you during weekdays; as you kiss the love note, you smell him, the scent of crisp pages and lemon.

The drawer has a thousand of those pieces of paper, but there’s always room for one more.

_Paterson is an understanding man._

On the days where you’re scrambling, scattered, swamped with work, with school, he joins you at the dinner table, the light scribbling of his pencil contrasting the frantic typing of your laptop. He doesn’t nag, doesn’t make you self conscious of your long hours, never implies you’re neglecting him. 

His free hand traces patterns on your arms, shapes that you swear are the same words his right hand is writing. That alone could lull you to sleep. When you’re exhausted, it does, and at the first sign of a yawn Pat drops the pencil, turning his dark eyes to you. He tries not to smile at your sour face, but the corners of his mouth quirk up. Without a word he rises, offering you a hand.

You take it every time, knowing you’ll be together, as close as two bodies can be.

_Paterson is a generous man._

You’ve seen how sometimes he lets people ride for free on his bus: doesn’t matter if it’s the old, the young, the rich or the poor, as long if they look like they need it. Need a kind gesture to remind them the world is not a burning dumpster, need someone to care, even if it’s for a second.

He’s more than happy to oblige. 

That’s how you met, on a day where the skies were the same color as skyscrapers. Rain cascaded from above, you had no umbrella and noticed too late that your wallet was left behind at work. Paterson didn’t mind you couldn’t pay for the fare, or that you were sopping wet, dripping water all over his bus.

Soon you waved him goodbye, taking note of his nametag and the worn mini notepad that peeked out from the pocket of his jacket.

On the next day you got on the bus stop 15 minutes before the scheduled time, squirming with anxiety, feeling little butterflies glide from your stomach to your heart. You had never done something so bold before.

The whirr of the bus braking in front of you drowned your thoughts. You deposited the fare on the paying slot with one hand, while the other offered him a brand new notepad.  
  
He smiled and the butterflies flew away and the rest was history.

_Paterson is a thoughtful man._

He absorbs everything you say, even more so on the weeks you’re overwhelmed, where life kicks you to the curb and he’s the one at your corner helping you up. He knows your quirks, the way you like your coffee, how the volume of the TV has to be a power of two or very bad things will happen to the world.

He tries to be one step ahead of the shit fate tries to throw at you, only to find you one step ahead of him. Some days he’s off work earlier and he’ll stop by the bakery, get you a few snacks so you can huddle under the covers and watch your favourite show for the millionth time. He’ll open the door, hiding the paper bag on his back and you’ll startle him, jumping at him from the corner of the hallway, arm tucked to your lower back.

He smiles when you exchange the gifts and he wonders how the hell you had the time to find an authentic first edition French translation of his favourite book.

_Paterson is a talented man._

His big hands float on the paper, his wrist slanted so he can trace the perfect line. The drawing is not quite capturing your likeness, but that’s ok. He’ll get there. For now he’s satisfied to have an excuse–not that he needs any–to stare at you a while longer. Maybe he should turn the page and start another sketch. You just changed positions on the couch and now he has the perfect view of your asleep form.

The drawing joins others at a box he keeps under the bed. He knows the chances of you getting to it are slim, after all, he’s the one who vacuums, you prefer to keep to the meal prep and the laundry. 

Little does he know of the day you dove under the bed to fish for a wayward sock. When your hands closed around the garment they hit something hard and coarse like cardboard. You dragged the box towards you and smiled at it, knowing your Pat was up to something.

A thousand theories brewed in your mind as you pushed it back to its place. You’d look forward for the day he was ready to show you its contents.

For now, you were more than happy to speculate.

_Paterson is the luckiest man in the world._

That’s what he thinks every day when he gets back home. He knows your schedules are night and day, but even so they meet at dusk, an hour where there’s no lines between light and shadow, where you’re neither tired or wide awake, but you’re there, ready for each other.

He enters your home, eyes roaming the colorful walls until they land on his favourite part of that painting: your figure, dancing in the living room as you prepare a mountain of pillows for your movie night.

He sets his lunchbox on the counter, drapes his jacket over a chair.

He kisses you and that’s how he says ‘I’m home’, that’s also how he says ‘good morning’, ‘good evening’ and ‘I love you’ ‘I love you’ ‘I love you’.

All you do is kiss him back, because if he’s the luckiest man, then you’re the luckiest woman in the world too.


End file.
